


Not Your Doctor, Not Your Captain

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (everyone is of age and happily consenting), (just a bit), (not between Sherlock and John), Age Difference, Anal Sex, Barista Sherlock Holmes, Blow Jobs, Daddy John, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Doctor John, Felching, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Pet Names, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "Coffee for John Watson," a voice calls, a low, deep rumble that sends a shiver down John's spine.The thought is pushed aside, his shoulders sagging at the sight of his long-awaited coffee. "Thank God."His eyes lock with long, elegant fingers around the rim of the cup, dimpling the carton in a way that John can only describe as sensual. It shouldn't be. It's seven-thirty in the bloody morning."I'm afraid that God had not much to do in making your coffee this morning," the barista replies. "I, on the other hand…"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 399





	Not Your Doctor, Not Your Captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coq/gifts).



> This is for Coq, who asked for Daddy Doctor John/Barista Sherlock. I hope this delivers! :D
> 
> CW for Sherlock being in a past relationship that involved his partner cheating on him (something Sherlock was aware of and didn't care about), which is referenced in the fic. There is also a reference to abuse, although none is committed in the present or in the characters' past. 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Call me back if there are any changes," John grumbles. "Any _important_ changes."

Without waiting for an answer, he ends the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket, before checking the watch at his wrist. He's had the shittiest morning and he's not even got his first cup of coffee yet. _What is taking so damn long?_

"Coffee for John Watson," a voice calls, a low, deep rumble that sends a shiver down John's spine.

The thought is pushed aside, his shoulders sagging at the sight of his long-awaited coffee. "Thank _God_."

His eyes lock with long, elegant fingers around the rim of the cup, dimpling the carton in a way that John can only describe as _sensual_. It shouldn't be. It's seven-thirty in the bloody morning.

"I'm afraid that God had not much to do in making your coffee this morning," the barista replies. "I, on the other hand…"

John's lips stretch into a slight smile. He knows that with his looks, his suit, his expensive watch, and his beard, he attracts a specific kind of attention, from a specific type of young men, although he hasn't indulged in those games in a long time. Yet, when he glances up at the man behind the counter, his thoughts come to a halt as he does a quick double-take: the barista isn't a pretty thing batting eyelashes at him, a boy barely out of school with the air of an ingenuous blond cherub, but a man in his mid-twenties, all limbs and a tad too thin for John's liking, an artistic mess of dark curls on his head, and a smirk plastered on his face that screams _trouble_.

Piercing blue eyes, pupils moving in infinitesimal movements, as if reading. As if reading _him_.

John licks his lips. _That's enough_ , he tells himself. "Well, thank you, then," he says. He was going for cordial but it only sounds cold.

He reaches for his cup, but the barista pulls it away. "Is it Doctor, or Captain?" he asks.

John frowns. "I'm sorry?"

"To complete your name on the cup. Do you go by _Doctor_ or _Captain_ Watson?"

"How…" John starts, closing his eyes for a single beat. "How do you know that?"

The barista leans in, his elbows on the counter, playing with the marker between his fingers. "It's my business to know what other people don't."

John huffs. "Okay." The thing is that he's ready to believe the bloke, but it requires a certain amount of energy he doesn't have since he's been waiting for that first sip of coffee for the past hour. "Can I have my coffee, now?"

"Doctor, or Captain?"

"Neither for you, boy," he says, somewhat sarcastically.

The barista's eyes narrow into two small lines. "I see."

John laughs. "No, you really don't. Can I have my coffee, now?"

The barista's tongue darts to lick at his full lower lip, as he scribbles away something on the cup. John barely restrains a sigh, still in no mood to give in to unnecessary flirting at this hour of the morning.

"Here," the barista says, and hands John his cup, who grabs it without a single look at it.

"Thanks."

He checks his watch again and realises that he doesn't need to be at the hospital for another hour yet. He has been on call all night, and Mark had paged him at six in the bloody morning because one of his patient's vitals went a bit wonky. For the fifth time this week. John knows there isn't anything wrong with the patient, of course, but he's not so sure about Mark. The freshly arrived resident is eager to please and is quick on the pager. John isn't particularly keen on being the one to teach him a lesson about responsibility, but he can't keep on missing the few hours of sleep he can get.

In any case, he doesn't have to be at the hospital right away, and so he settles on a table against one of the windows looking out on the street. He sips at his coffee, already feeling better, and watches the people outside. After a few minutes, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and the screen lights up with the new article John was reading through before going to bed the night before.

Just as his brain is trying to make sense of the words, his gaze settles on the back of the barista he was talking to earlier. He is scrubbing at a table that looks in a sorry state, dirtied napkins sticking out of towered plates and two mugs that have left stains behind them.

Just when he is about to look down again at his phone, John sees the barista throw a look over his shoulder, in the direction of the empty counter, before chugging into his mouth what looks to be a leftover macaroon.

John sighs, distractedly rubbing at his beard with one hand. _Too thin for his liking_ , he remembers. That explains a lot.

For the first time, he lets his eyes travel over the barista's body in an appreciative manner. _You're always a bit of a dick, before your first coffee_ , Mike usually tells him. Mike has a knack for telling John truths he doesn't particularly want to hear. ( _You should find yourself someone, you know, round your sharp edges a bit._ ) Yet, now, it seems that even the barista has lost his sharp edges: there is a slight blush on his cheeks, a wrinkle of concentration between his brows, and when he looks up, wiping his hand on his perfectly fitted skinny jeans, his hair is a puffy cloud of curls, not quite as sculpted as they were a few minutes ago.

That, above all, makes something ache deep down in John's chest.

If the barista had been flirting before, he does not seem to mind John at all right now, as he keeps on working with efficiency. Any other boy would have been leaning over the table next to John's, or making eyes at him from the other side of the shop, asking every two minutes if he needed something else. No, this bloke is not like that, not that John could ever imagine him being coy in the first place. And thank God — porn-quality acting has always annoyed him to no end.

He thinks back to Mike's words. Does he truly need someone? Someone to talk with, about something other than work. Someone to go out with. Someone to laugh with. Someone to be protective over. Someone to take care of. Someone to come back home to, late at night, and for that someone to be asleep in bed, warming their sheets.

Or maybe Mike was just trying to convey the fact that he would be less of a dick should he get laid on the regular, which, John guesses, is also true.

He glances at the barista and licks his lips. The man had been infuriating — nothing in him will _round John's sharp edges_ , he knows, but he wouldn't go for a man that would, would he?

No. That boy screams trouble, in the ways he read John earlier. That boy screams _feral animal, won't be tamed_ , but feral also means _hungry_ and _alone_ , ready to eat from someone's hand if one knows how to stay still.

Just as the barista passes in front of his table, John raises a finger.

"Yes?"

"One scone, please," John says. "If you have them."

The barista raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _of course, we have them_ , but doesn't say a word as he walks towards the counter.

A minute later, he's back with a plain scone on a small plate that he deposits on John's table. Before he can walk away, John looks up and stops him.

"Sit down," John says.

"I'm sorry?"

"You should have a break sometime soon, right?" John pushes the plate across the table, towards the other chair. There's barely anyone in the coffee shop and another employee is working behind the counter as well. "Sit down and eat."

The barista smirks. "I thought that customer service was a universally understood concept but I can teach you the basics again if you need a refreshment course."

John doesn't budge. "You're hungry. Sit down, and _eat_."

It takes him another moment, but the barista finally drops on the chair in front of John. John had been right: the man was hungry, from the way he nearly inhales that scone on sight.

"So," John says, "how did you guess? When you said _doctor or captain_?"

The barista glances up. "I didn't guess, I deduced," he says, between two bites.

"Right. Care to tell me how?"

That same smirk, again. "Not exactly a coffeeshop type of conversation. Not one I can have in the span of a single scone."

"We have time."

"I don't," the barista says.

Plate empty, he licks the tip of his fingers before wiping them on a napkin he crumples and throws on the plate. Then, he leans against the table and reaches for John's cup of coffee.

He takes a sip, eyes locked with John's.

"Someone taking care of you?" John asks before he can stop the words.

The barista's lips stretch into a slight smile, cupid bow resting on the rim of the cup. "Why?"

"Because they would be doing a piss-poor job of it."

Something changes in the man's eyes as he puts the cup back on the table and straightens himself on his seat, as if an invisible barrier had appeared between them.

But John can't blame himself: he would never let a boy of his go hungry, or have jeans so worn that they might tear at the knees, unless they were going for that particular look. For him, it was never a matter of owning as a matter of protecting. Taking care. He's a bloody doctor who's been to bloody war, after all, and if the barista pretends to be able to see through all of it, he must know about John's intentions by now.

Damn. He gets attached too quickly, he knows. He was annoyed with the man half-an-hour ago, but now he would do anything to see him naked and on his knees. Begging. Exquisite boy. _His_ exquisite boy.

"I have to get back," the barista says, with a nod towards the counter, snapping John right out of that fantasy. He doesn't sound disgusted or frightened — John guesses he is seldom — just indifferent and maybe a bit annoyed as well.

"All right."

The barista quirks an eyebrow. What? Did he think John would tie him to that chair and never let him leave? He's not like that.

"You should find another place for your coffee."

John frowns. "Why?"

"It's expensive here," he says, standing up.

"I don't mind expensive," John answers, reclining on his chair.

The sole answer that comes his way is an exasperated huff.

John jerks his chin up, gaze lost somewhere over the heads of the clients sipping at their coffees. Maybe it's for the best. He hasn't been in the game since the war. Barely anything has happened to him since the war, he corrects himself, with an unhappy smile. What had been a vast plain of _nothing_ at first had transformed into _work, work, work, work_ , and if it feels good to be in a place of financial stability, nothing can replace the gaping hole in his life when other doctors around him talk about their partners.

His pager buzzes against his belt, and John sighs. That would be Mark, again.

He stands up, pulls a 50£ note out of his wallet, and sticks it half-under his plate. That should secure the barista a few days of food. On that, he grabs his cup and steps out of the shop.

Halfway down the road, he puts his lips on the spot on the rim the barista had drunk from. He sips what remains of his coffee, and just before throwing it in the nearest bin, notices the word that had been added to his name.

He smiles to himself and muses for a second if the barista had decided on _Doctor or Captain_ , before he notices that the single word written in a tiny, quick scrawl, is neither.

It reads: _Sherlock_.

"Well, that's the end of that," John mutters to himself.

***

Halfway through his day, as the A&E gets surprisingly empty, John closes the door of the nearest supply closet behind him and bites down on an apple. He hasn't eaten much since his coffee this morning, and if he hears yet another patient telling him how their flu symptoms are hiding a rare type of exotic disease without having had a proper meal first, he might just explode into thin air.

He breathes in and out a few times, comfortable in the darkness and the silence of the tiny room.

His phone pings.

"I swear if this is you, Mark—" he grumbles, sticking the apple in his mouth as he moves for his phone in his trouser's pocket.

The screen lights up with a message from an unknown number.

_[11:32] No. — SH_

John frowns. What's that supposed to mean? Someone who's got the wrong number, most likely. He opens the text and is about to type a quick reply when a picture appears under that first message.

The apple falls from John's mouth and rolls at his feet.

The first thing his eyes fall on are creamy-white thighs, shamelessly spread on a bed. A cock, between them, smaller than average in size, but erect and pink and moist at the tip, so hard that it looks painful, nested in a soft fuzz of auburn hair. Delicate bollocks, drawn tight to the man's body, and the soft, pink curve of his perineum leading to his arse, flattened on the bed, dissimulating a small, pink hole John can only imagine. A hand, resting on one thigh, and long, pale fingers that John recognises, because John has seen them just this morn—

His thoughts come to a halt as he takes in the picture as a whole, eyes hungrily travelling over the barista's— over _Sherlock_ 's naked body, lean and aroused and wanting and _spread out for him_.

Then it hits him: the bedding. The wall behind Sherlock.

That's his bedroom. In his flat.

"What the hell," he mutters, ignoring the way his cock twitches at that single thought.

Sherlock, in his bed.

He exhales, slowly, and when he feels he has regained enough control over his body, types a quick reply.

**_[11:35] ?_ **

_[11:35] No, there's no one taking care of me. — SH_

**_[11:36] Who took that picture, then?_ **

_[11:37] Jealous? — SH_

The corner of John's mouth twitches. He shouldn't be — he has no reason to, but yes, he is. There is no possible way he can hide it.

Before he can reply, the ellipsis appears on the corner of his screen, and a new message comes through:

_[11:38] Don't be. My phone camera has a timer. Not that you would know. — SH_

John smiles. This time, he doesn't feel as annoyed as fond of that sharp tongue.

**_[11:38] Are you implying that I'm old?_ **

_[11:39] No. Old enough, that, yes. — SH_

**_[11:39] God. I could eat you up right now._ **

_[11:40] Please_

_[11:40] Daddy_

_[11:40] Please_

"Fuck," John lets out.

This is it, then: Sherlock just acknowledged what they both want, what they both need from each other. His fingers clumsy on the screen, John clicks on Sherlock's phone number and presses his mobile to his ear.

Sherlock picks up right away. For a few seconds, John doesn't say anything but listens to the heavy breathing on the other end of the line. The rustling of sheets.

"Daddy." Fuck, that voice should be illegal. Low, and husky, with an edge to it as Sherlock adds, "I'm so hard for you, Daddy."

"Are you touching yourself?"

"No."

"Why not?"

A pause. "Daddy didn't say I could."

The words feel like a punch in the guts, and John can barely retain a groan from slipping out. God, he's half-hard in his trousers and at work — anyone could step in that closet at any time and witness him having some kind of phone sex with a man ten years younger than him. _Dangerous._

He hasn't felt more alive in the last two years.

John chuckles. "You're a very good boy, Sherlock."

A moan. He likes being praised, then. Good.

"You already know how to please Daddy," John says. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"Daddy's cock."

"And?" John breathes out. He would like nothing more than to whip out his cock right here and now and jerk himself off until completion, imagining himself coming all over Sherlock's arse, painting that sweet pink hole with his come. It's not like being at work can dissuade him from doing so, but this is about Sherlock. John must stay in control.

"And— and how good it would feel… inside me."

There is hesitation in Sherlock's tone, a certain shyness coming from him that John has not felt before, as if he's not used to talking this way, to say what he wants.

He hears a faint ruffling of sheets and the bed creaks. "Are you rubbing yourself on my bed, sweetheart?"

"The sheets smell of you, Daddy."

"No rubbing," John says, commanding. "No touching yourself either, not before Daddy tells you to. I don't want you to come all over my sheets and make a mess. But tell me, love, tell me what you're thinking about."

"I'm thinking about Daddy's big cock," Sherlock quickly lets out, as if the final barrier has fallen to the ground. "And how big it would stretch me, and how it would burn. I'm not sure if I can take all of it, Daddy's so big, but I want to be a good boy for Daddy, so I'm letting him take me, even if it hurts a bit at first, I want to be good for you—"

"You are, Sherlock, you're my perfect boy."

"And then, I'll let Daddy fuck me. Oh," he moans, "Daddy will pound me in his bed—"

"Until you're screaming, sweetheart, I'll fuck you so deep that you'll be tasting my cock in the back of your throat," he says, as Sherlock's breathing quickens and the bed starts creaking again. "I'll make it last. I'll fuck you for hours on end, baby, because you're so good for me and that hole is too sweet to resist."

" _Daddy_ ," Sherlock begs, sounding close to tears.

"I'll slow down every time you'll get too close because my boy comes only when I tell him to. You'll try to rut that hard little cock into the mattress because you won't be able to resist anymore, but I'll hold you down against the bed. Maybe spank you a little, because you're being a naughty boy and not listening to Daddy—"

"Pull my hair," Sherlock pants.

"What was that, love? Pull your hair? All right, baby. I'll grab a fistful of that lovely hair, and I'll yank so hard your head will lift from the bed, and that will give me leverage to fuck you even deeper—"

The continuous stream of whimpers and moans transforms into a single oh, and John plasters his phone as close to his ear as it will get, to hear that lovely sigh of ecstasy coming out of those gorgeous lips.

A pause. "John?"

He hums, already knowing the answer. "Yes, love?"

"I ejaculated all over your sheets."

John chuckles. "Naughty boy. Did you touch yourself?"

"No."

"That's good. Well, I hope you enjoyed this one because you're not coming again before I've got my hands on you."

"And when that will be?"

"Are you free tomorrow night?"

"I'm free anytime Daddy wants to see me," Sherlock says, and John can hear that smirk again in his tone.

"That's not the answer I want, Sherlock. You've got work, you've got school—"

"It's a doctorate in chemistry, not _school_."

He smiles. God, to be so young and reckless again. "Even more so. I'm not letting you compromise your education, your job or your social life for me."

"John—"

"It's my job to take care of you. That means all of you. Understood?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Good boy. So, are you free tomorrow night?"

"I have to hand in a paper around four. Not sure how long that will last. Tonight, instead?"

John considers. "No, not tonight. I have a dinner with some colleagues, not that I wouldn't want to be with you instead,” he adds, his tone bitter. "And if I understand correctly, you need to work on that paper."

"John," Sherlock sighs.

"School first, sweetheart, you won't change my mind on that. The world needs a bit of that beautiful brain of yours," he says, with a smile. "Anyway, meet me tomorrow after your meeting? My place?"

"Fine," Sherlock says, as if it is the biggest concession to make. "I will."

"Have a good day, baby."

Sherlock huffs at the other end of the line before ending the call, and it sounds fonder than John believes Sherlock wanted to. That boy is going to be a challenge, he knows, but he wouldn't want to have it any other way.

On that, John readjusts himself in his trousers and steps out of the supply closet, apple forgotten somewhere under a shelf.

***

If John thought that Sherlock would go radio silence until they would meet tomorrow, he was wrong. Sherlock keeps texting him throughout the day, and John finds himself replying as soon as he can get a break from the not-too-busy A&E. He genuinely enjoys talking with him — Sherlock is clever and makes him laugh. Some boys John was with in the past were entirely devoted to please John in any possible way, but Sherlock stays himself, not trying to hide any part of that eccentric personality that is slowly charming John.

Nevertheless, there are a few texts that manage to make heat rise to John's face.

_[12:03] No toys in your drawers. I'm starting to think you're boring. — SH_

**_[12:14] Believe me, sweetheart, I won't need any toys to play with you._ **

_[12:21] That's… unfair. I'm at work. — SH_

_[12:22] People are starting to stare. — SH_

**_[12:32] I bet you're making a few customers happy._ **

_[12:33] Not my boss. I was sent home for the day. — SH_

**_[12:34] For a bit of a hard-on?_ **

_[12:35] No. I believe the exact reason was "for being an impertinent bastard". — SH_

**_[12:42] What did you say to her, love?_ **

_[12:45] She asked me if I could just go home during my break and take care of that. — SH_

_[12:45] I told her I couldn't. — SH_

_[12:45] She asked why. — SH_

_[12:46] I told her I was being a good boy. — SH_

***

The texting continues well into the night, as John goes to one meeting after the other, and ends up in a prestigious five-star restaurant at the top of a building he would have never set foot in by himself. His colleagues are dreadful and the only salvation is that Mark hasn't been invited, but it doesn't mean John can escape the most boring conversations about wives, children, one or two remarks about how marriage is a ball and chain to a man's life, and the latest news in the golf world.

Throughout the dinner, John makes conversation with Sarah, the only woman at the table, who is interested in talking about medical cases. Once they get to the bottom of that subject, they fall back into an awkward silence, disturbed only by the buzzing sound of John's phone in his pocket.

When John opens his messages, hiding his screen under the table, he can see Sherlock has sent him a picture of spreadsheets on a table, marked with chemical structures and equations in that tiny scrawl John could now recognise anywhere. The photo is a direct answer to John's earlier text when he was enquiring about Sherlock's progress on that paper. John can also see Sherlock's hard-on through his jeans, the photo of his notes, taken eagle view, a clear diversion to show off that he's still hard.

John pretends not to notice and after a quick look around him, he types a reply.

**_[21:03] You genius._ **

_[21:05] You can't say that if you don't understand what I'm doing. — SH_

**_[21:13] I can understand some of it. Doctor, remember? And it doesn't mean that I can't recognise the fact that you're amazing._ **

**_[21:14] How did you get my address, by the way? I've meant to ask earlier._ **

_[21:15] But you didn't. — SH_

**_[21:16] I was a bit preoccupied with something else. How did you do it?_ **

_[21:17] You have a blog. — SH_

John sighs. He's not updated the old thing in ages. It was his therapist's idea to write about what was happening in his life. He ended up writing two or three interesting medical cases, without giving any names, before Ella told him that work didn't count. John hasn't updated it since.

**_[21:34] My address is not on the blog._ **

_[21:37] If you don't think I can trace back an IP address to a specific location… — SH_

**_[21:38] There. Genius. You see?_ **

_[21:39] Never said I wasn't. — SH_

**_[21:45] And my mobile number? I didn't give you that either._ **

_[21:50] NHS records are easy enough to bust in. — SH_

John laughs, and a few heads turn towards him. He waves a hand, not wanting to explain, and puts back his phone in his pocket. Faking interest in the current conversation, he sips at his glass of wine, thoughts far away. He has known Sherlock for a single day and the man has already woven himself in every aspect of John's life. In any other situation, John would take a step back and try to consider the situation with a clear mind. There is no step back to take with Sherlock: he can only follow and hope not to get burned, or to burn in turn.

I like him, John realises. I like him and not only because we enjoy the same game in bed.

If not for Sherlock, it would have been a scary thought.

***

The next afternoon, John finds the door to his flat unlocked. A smile on his face, he pushes it open, only to be greeted by silence and a clear absence of his awaited guest.

He frowns, before moving to the equally empty kitchen. No one in the bathroom. No one in the guest room.

A smile on his lips, John pushes the door to his bedroom, wondering in what kind of dirty pose he will find Sherlock in there, but his heart squeezes in his chest when he realises he has been wrong. Sherlock's lithe, naked body is entangled around a single white sheet, head resting on the pillow, his chest rising and falling in time with the soft snoring.

John smiles to himself, and after another minute, closes the door behind him, without a sound.

He starts working on supper instead. Going by Sherlock's texting through the night, he hasn't slept at all, working on that paper of his, and John doubts that he has found time to eat as well. John remembers too well when he was a med student himself, studying into unholy hours of the night, his diet consisting of ramen and coffee.

He goes through his kitchen once and notices that not much has changed since then: apart from the fact that his coffee machine is broken, something that would have sent him into a panic in his university days, his pantry contains rice, pasta, and ketchup. With a sigh, he takes his phone out of his pocket and rings the closest Chinese restaurant.

The food is spread on the table when John hears a door opening at the end of the hallway. Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, sheet wrapped around his body, a halo of fuzzy curls around his head and a wrinkle between his eyes.

"John?" he asks, slightly lost.

John laughs. "Had a good nap, love?"

"If that wasn't the latest iPhone in your pocket, I'd be wondering what decade we're in," Sherlock grumbles.

John plants himself in front of him, and as Sherlock lowers his head, presses a kiss to his forehead. His thumb traces over a slight bump in the skin.

"Wait, what's that?"

He steps away to better see the small cut on Sherlock's cheekbone, where the blood has coagulated, a faint, blue bruise underneath. John's eyes travel to Sherlock's mouth, where his lower lip is split.

"Nothing," Sherlock says, turning his head. A smirk follows, because that man can't help but show off. "You should have seen him."

John throws him a look. "Sherlock. You said there isn't someone else."

Sherlock picks his hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses his palm. "There isn't. Not anymore. And it was a long time coming."

John looks at him, unsure about what to think. He doubts Sherlock is lying, although he is not sure he follows, either.

"John," Sherlock says, eyes intent on him. " _Trust me_."

He swallows. He's too deep in this to back away now. "I do. Let's get something for this," he adds, thumb caressing that cut.

"That is entirely unne—"

"Yeah, you don't get to argue about that with me," John cuts in.

He takes Sherlock by the wrist and leads him to the bathroom, not minding the low grumble of _unnecessary_ and _doctor_ and _superficial_.

A minute later, he has Sherlock sitting on the counter and is applying a cream on the reddened knuckles of his right hand. He grits his teeth together. If that wanker has touched—

"The answer is no," Sherlock drawls out.

John lifts his head.

"You think I was in an abusive relationship but the answer is no. No, he never hit me before. No, he never abused me in any way. It probably wasn't what psychologists would call a healthy relationship but we got what we needed from each other and that was that. I started it, by the way," he adds, chin pointing at his knuckles.

"What happened?"

"I walked in on him balls deep in his PA."

John hisses.

"Don't," Sherlock says. "I knew she would be there. I've known for three months. Since it started, actually, not that I could care less. She, in turn, was not so happy to hear about me… and the three other women."

John chuckles, astonished. "What a cock."

"Hmm, yes. Unfortunately for him, the facts were on my side and the PA didn't enjoy hearing about them very much. She slapped him and that was pretty much the moment he went for me. As I said, it wasn't surprising — I'm clean, by the way — and he's in a worse state than I am."

"Good. He won't come after you, now?"

"Money can buy many things, John, but not bigger balls."

He laughs. "Well, nowadays, surgery can—"

Sherlock shuts him up with a bruising kiss, as he wraps his legs around John's waist, the sheet falling from his shoulders. John grabs him around the waist, pulling Sherlock to him and tilting him back at the same time. He plants both his hands farther away on the counter, crowding Sherlock, his thoughts heavy with pure want. It feels so right and so wrong at the same time that John would call it sin if he were a religious man. There is nothing wrong with the sex, nor with the age difference — he couldn't care less about that, Sherlock being a consenting adult well-past his mid-twenties — but John's mind is inhabited by a quiet paranoia that has not left him since his army days. (They've barely known each other for a day. Sherlock could be manipulating him into something bigger. Trying to find a way to steal from him. Maybe he's not even a student, maybe the barista thing is only a con. Maybe John will become the inevitable cliché of being an older man falling for his no-strings plan.)

John finds that he doesn't care.

He drags Sherlock forward again, and his arse squeaks against the clean counter. John breaks the kiss and chuckles softly into Sherlock's neck.

"John," Sherlock lets out, and John looks up.

"Yes?" he asks.

A pause. Sherlock stares down at the floor. John finds the corner of his mouth and kisses him there. "Tell me."

"I don't need the money," Sherlock says, an edge to his voice. "They always get that wrong. I don't need new clothes and five-star restaurants and expensive watches and yacht weekends."

John huffs at that. He's well-off but not _yacht weekends_ well-off.

"I don't care about that," Sherlock continues. "It's not a matter of you buying me, and money is not what will keep me satisfied, they never quite understand that, but…"

He draws Sherlock closer to him, pressing their foreheads together. "Tell me what you need, baby."

"It's my brain. I can't pretend to be able to explain it to you in a way that you will understand me, but my brain is my hard drive, and it never stops. Brains transform sensual input into new information that is then quickly filed away, but me, John… I see everything. On a good day, I can manage with the information, the inputs, the thoughts, the white noise through it, I can store it adequately, I have my methods. But on a bad day… It never stops, John. And I need it to stop."

"Is today a bad day?"

Sherlock nuzzles in his neck. "Daddy, _please_."

John's cock twitches, because, of course, Sherlock knows the right words to use with him. God, he could spread him on that counter and fuck him right here, right now, but he doesn't want it to be over too soon. Instead, he gathers Sherlock in his arms, sheet trapped between them, and kissing, blindly carries him off to the bedroom.

Sherlock is sucking on his tongue when his back hits one of the bedroom's walls, and John uses the leverage to tug him up. Sherlock's cock obscenely tents a corner of the sheet stuck over his groin, and John thrusts up against him.

"One day I'm going to fuck you against a wall, sweetheart," John promises, panting.

Sherlock moans and lets his head fall back against the wall, exposing miles of neck John latches his mouth on, sucking and nibbling a path down that pale skin.

"The day I resign from the coffeeshop I'll let you have me against the front window."

John groans. "I'll finger you in a bathroom, plug a vibrator in that lovely arse of yours, and watch you work all day as I'll play with the controller."

Sherlock laughs, helpless. "I'll fellate you from underneath a table and watch as you try to keep a straight face through it."

"Nobody will notice."

"That boring colleague of yours that you have to endure at restaurant outings will notice because he'll be sitting with you and I'll be humping the wrong leg before I realise something is off."

"Christ," John barks out, laughing. It takes him a moment to sober up, and laughter transforms into a groan as Sherlock's erection pokes him in the stomach. He looks down at it. "I'll spread you on the counter, cover you with whip cream and lick it off you, bit by bit. That place had better send us a thank you card, we're going to make them very popular, very quickly."

John catches the last of Sherlock's chuckling in a quick kiss that grows deeper and deeper. Sherlock moves one of his hands from John's neck to wrap his fingers around his bulging bicep, and John, pretending he has not noticed, flexes just a bit more for him.

"John," Sherlock breathes out, his thighs digging around John's waist.

He lifts Sherlock away from the wall, and towards the bed. It's only when the back of his knees hit the mattress that John lets go of Sherlock, hands sliding on his thighs until Sherlock's feet are back on the floor.

John sits down on the mattress and looks up. "You want me to be in control. I understand that. You can let go, Sherlock, I'm in control, now."

Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut. A low whimper grows in his throat. "Tell me what you want, Daddy."

"You're such a good boy," John says, his voice a faint whisper in the silent room, so that Sherlock has to concentrate on it. "You always know how to please Daddy… And now, Daddy wants to see all of his boy, if that's all right?"

The earlier image floats back in his mind, the one with the feral pet sniffing the food from his palm. Sherlock's brain is a knot of sparks and sensations, of overflowing information he cannot process. John has to ease that knot, John has to calm down those sensations before imposing new ones, a clear line of order that Sherlock will be able to follow with renewed focus.

But before that, the scared and lost part of Sherlock needs to accept John's help. Needs to trust. Needs to eat from his hand.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock's arms unfold, and the sheet drops to the ground.

John breath hitches in his throat before he remembers he needs to stay in control of himself. He has seen Sherlock naked once before, of course, on the photo, but it's not even close to the emotion he feels right now, from seeing his boy this way, bare and standing in front of him. Now, he can see every freckle, every mole, every scar waiting to be kissed, every muscle, waiting to be tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed—

And that cock, of course, rising in a full mast, a drop of precum shining at his slit.

John puts his hands on Sherlock's hips, thumbs tracing circles over the skin, and feels him shiver.

He pulls Sherlock towards him, gently. "Come sit on Daddy's lap."

Sherlock climbs in on the bed the moment the words are out of John's mouth, placing his legs on either side of him, burrowing his head in his neck, as John slides his hands on the curve of his arse.

"I didn't know you were shy, baby," he says, with a chuckle.

"Is Daddy disappointed?" he asks, his voice small. "They always say it's too small, did Daddy—"

John hushes him. It's a game — of course, it's a game, and Sherlock knows how to pull at the right strings to make John feel responsible and protective of him, but as with all games, and as with all disguises, there is an essence of truth underneath. John doubts Sherlock has any issue with his size, but it doesn't mean he doesn't need reassurance for a million other things that are going through his mind.

"Hush, baby, hush. You're perfect. Don't you see it?" he says, his hand a caress on the soft bumps of Sherlock's curved spine. "You're gorgeous. You're clever. You're my perfect boy, and I wouldn't change anything about you. You're safe here, and I'm going to take care of you, love. You don't need to think about anything else but how good you feel with Daddy. It's only you and me, right now." He takes Sherlock's hand and places it over the front of his jeans, where his erection is straining against the fabric. He feels Sherlock's smile growing against his neck. "You see how hard you make Daddy, love? That's from looking at that pretty cock of yours. And yesterday, when you sent me that picture? Daddy got hard at work thinking about that pretty cock, you naughty boy."

He slaps one of Sherlock's arse cheeks, who yelps and bucks forward, his cock poking at John's lower stomach. "Oh, again, Daddy."

John slaps him again, for good measure, on the other cheek, before biting his hand down in the curve of that lovely arse. "Naughty, naughty boy."

Sherlock is shamelessly rubbing on John's lap, now, his head unstuck from John's neck and facing him, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Yes, I deserve that. Please, Daddy, again—"

He stops when John presses two fingers on top of his lips. " _I am_ the one in control here, Sherlock. I get to decide what happens next. You only follow, all right? Or else what you have asked of me won't work."

"I want to be a good boy."

"You are," John says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'll spank you another time but tonight we're doing what Daddy wants, all right?"

"Yes. Daddy is very good to me. And may I say," he adds, his voice dropping low, "if it is of any importance tonight, that I really like Daddy's beard?"

John laughs. "Thank you, baby." He kisses him, a quick peck on the lips. "Now, I'm going to take my cock out, all right? You can watch, but you can't touch, understand?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Sherlock slips his arms around John's shoulders, their foreheads pressed together, and looks down as John does quick work with his belt, and finally, finally, unzips himself. His cock springs out of his jeans, and John can't help but hiss at that release.

He watches as Sherlock licks his lips, eyes on John's cock.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," John asks.

"I'm thinking how good it would feel to take a ride on Daddy's fat cock."

John closes his eyes. Even his eyelids feel scorching hot. "Yeah, Daddy will let you bounce on his cock after he'll have spanked your arse cherry-red, sweetheart, but not tonight. Now, be a good boy and get on the bed. On your hands and knees, baby."

As Sherlock places himself on the bed, John takes off his clothes, takes the lube out of the drawer and goes to kneel behind him. Two fingers holding the base of his cock, he gently pats over Sherlock's arse with it, just at the place where his cheeks separate.

Sherlock hisses and looks back over his shoulder.

"Do you feel that, baby? Drop your head and concentrate on where Daddy's touching you. Trust me."

Sherlock does as he is told, and John continues to toy with him, as he travels the tip of his cock over the curve of his arse. He runs his cock between his cheeks. Sherlock shivers when the tip of John's cock catches against the rim of his hole, but John doesn't linger. A bit of precum drops here and there, but John never stops and keeps on marking his boy until he can see Sherlock's fine hair rising on his arms and legs.

"My boy is so sensitive," he says. "Open wider, love."

Sherlock does so, and John can comfortably rest his cock over the small of Sherlock's back as he goes to grab at Sherlock's hair. Sherlock understands and arches his back, and John presses two fingers of his other hand to Sherlock's lips.

"Suck," he orders.

He groans as Sherlock's lips close over his fingers and Sherlock starts sucking on John's fingers as if it were a cock, mouth thrusting up and down, sloppily twirling his tongue around them, until John decides it's enough.

He lets go of Sherlock's hair and waits until he's back on his hands and knees before he applies the pad of his wet fingers to Sherlock's hole. He presses a finger in, and watches as Sherlock's body swallows him up. He's warm and tight, and there is tension in his shoulders as John pushes in, as gently as possible.

"It's been a while, baby?"

"Too long," Sherlock pants.

"That's a shame." He adds another finger. "They don't know how to take care of you, baby, not like I do. I know my boy needs cock to be satisfied, doesn't he?"

Sherlock rocks back on John's fingers, trying to find that spot himself. "Yes, Daddy."

John stops Sherlock, a hand on his waist. It takes a moment for Sherlock to understand, or to come to reason, rather, before he stills.

"Good boy," John says, and curls a finger inside him. "When you're a good boy, you—"

His words are cut short by a single shout, a half-ecstatic, half-panicked, " _John!_ ", followed by three quick pulses of Sherlock's hole clenching around his fingers. It's so short and intense that John only realises what has happened after it ends. 

Sherlock's head sags between his shoulders. When he speaks, it's with clear embarrassment written all over his voice, and this time, it's a hundred percent real. "John— I'm sorry— I didn't—"

"Hush, baby, it's fine. It's all fine."

"It's not fine, I still— fuck me."

John bites on his lower lip. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. I want it." A pause. "My brain, John… My brain won't stop until Daddy sticks his cock in me."

Rationality be damned, John can't refuse him that. He's pretty sure he can't refuse him anything. "Stay there. Don't move."

He fetches the lube, and coats his cock with it, giving himself two, three quick tugs. He doesn't need them — he hasn't been this hard in a long time, and he doubts he will last very long.

He positions himself behind Sherlock and hesitates. A part of him wants it, but another knows it's considered bad manners to fuck a man after he has come. John's had a partner in the past who enjoyed it — the slightly painful side of it — and he must admit that he has himself had that act done on him once or twice. Not that he was in his best mind when he did it, but he's not here to question Sherlock's motives.

"Come on," Sherlock whines. "Fuck me, Daddy."

John smiles to himself, picks up the lube again and smears a bit more of it around Sherlock's hole, pressing in with his fingers one last time to make sure he's ready.

"Do you trust me, baby?" he asks, and Sherlock nods. "Good. We're going to take this slow, all right? You're going to have to stretch big for Daddy so we're going to go slow."

He positions his cock against Sherlock's hole and pushes in.

Sherlock whimpers, his hands crunching down on the sheets, but he bears down and John slips another centimetre forward. John can't help but throw his head back, the sensation over entering Sherlock's body nearly overwhelming. He can feel that Sherlock is impatient, but Sherlock, breathing hard, is also not trying to push back too much, unlike when John had his fingers in him. It's another minute or two until John is fully seated in him, and he leans his chest against Sherlock's back.

"You're a wonder, baby," he whispers. "You're being so good for Daddy… My gorgeous boy… Look how well you're taking all of me."

Sherlock's answer is a low whine, but John doesn't expect anything more. Instead, he kisses his shoulder blade, and waits, feeling how his cock is squeezed out by the clenching of Sherlock's arse, as if he's trying to understand the intrusion of John's length from the inside.

This quiet exploration subsides after a moment, and John risks a small thrust forward, which makes Sherlock moan. He throws an arm around him and reaches for Sherlock's cock, but before he remembers Sherlock has already come, his fingers close around a small, burgeoning erection.

John snorts, quietly, against Sherlock's back. Oh, to be young, horny and full of come again.

He picks up the pace, coming back to his knees, hands on Sherlock's waist, and starts to fuck him in earnest.

He stays in control throughout, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy seeing Sherlock go down on his elbow, lifting his arse to meet John's thrusts, that round, creamy arse John wants to come all over — and will, someday. He closes his eyes and enjoys himself, drinking in the sensations, the strong smell of arousal and sweat, the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin, the low whines and moans echoing through the room as John fucks them out of Sherlock, one by one.

What was a slow build of heat in his lower belly catches him by surprise as he orgasms, driving his cock up Sherlock's arse as hard as he can, coming and coming and coming again.

When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is whining, looking over his shoulder and trying to impale himself further on John's softening cock, and John would almost feel guilty about that should he not have something else in mind.

"John," Sherlock hisses when John slips out of him.

"Don't move."

No, when John said that he wouldn't need toys to play with Sherlock, he meant it. He drops on his knees and takes both of his hands to separate Sherlock's arse cheeks. A stripe of come is leaking from that pink, open hole, and John bends down to lick it.

"John!" Sherlock cries out, somehow bucking forwards and backward at the same time.

"I thought you said you liked Daddy's beard," John says, and for good measure, rubs it on one of Sherlock's cheeks.

"I do, I do— _please_."

"Please what?"

"Daddy, please!"

That's as much as he is going to get out of Sherlock, he knows, and so he bends back down and catches another stripe of come with the tip of his tongue. He licks it up, before taking his fingers to feed back his come into Sherlock's hole.

" _Ngh_ , Daddy!"

With a smile, John sneaks his hand between Sherlock's legs to find him hard and wet. He could finish him like that, but that cock is too gorgeous to miss out.

Instead, John manhandles Sherlock on his back, and grabs him at his waist, not minding the surprised ah! as he bends down and swallows half of that pretty cock in a single movement.

It doesn't take long after that, as he judges from Sherlock's litany of _oh God, oh God, oh my God_ — and John lets him come in his mouth, swallowing around the head of his cock, taking in all that his wonderful boy has to offer.

Sherlock's limbs go slack and he licks him off as clean as possible before he goes to the bathroom to retrieve a wet cloth.

"John?" Sherlock calls. He must have realised that John is not in the room anymore.

"I'm here, love, just fetching a cloth to get us clean," he says.

Sherlock looks nearly comatose as he comes back to bed, and lets John wash him in slow, gentle movements. Once they're both clean, John sets the cloth aside and covers them both with the duvet.

He wasn't sure what Sherlock's reaction would be — he could equally imagine him growing cold and leaving the bed or spending the night over, but John is grateful when Sherlock curls up around him, a small, satisfied sigh on his lips.

John smiles and kisses his brow. "Better?"

Sherlock hums. "Oh, yes." He opens his eyes, hesitation written on his face. "Do you expect me to leave when you'll be sleeping?"

"No," John whispers, as he gathers Sherlock closer to him. "You can stay if that's what you want. I'd like that."

"All right."

"Let me take care of you, Sherlock."

"All right," he repeats. If his tone sounds a bit more guarded than it was before, John doesn't remark on it.

Against his words, Sherlock is the first to fall asleep, snoring softly on John's shoulder. Content, John follows him soon.


End file.
